Western Front Redux

 

 

 

When I set out to walk the Umi no Be no Michi in August 2009, I hadn't realized that it extended along the Katsuraka-go-ozaki peninsula.  My mistake became clear last year while driving the high Oku-biwako Parkway which parallels the trail, with signage for the latter popping up now and again along the way.   So it was that I returned on an overcast morning at the beginning of November.  

It was a less than auspicious start. I made the rookie maneuver of not checking my return train times until on the outbound ride, and was horrified at how early this line shut down.  I'd have to race all day to catch the last one at just before 5 o'clock, leaving me just under six hours to do an eight to nine hour walk.  Hitching would be crucial, and it was in my favor that it was a national holiday, meaning more people on the road, many devoid of any solid plan.  Picking up a foreign hitchhiker made for a pleasant diversion.

Unfortunately the road itself conspired against me.  The long stretch running south from Ōmi-Shiotsu station was lined with a guardrail, offering no place to pull over, thus no chance of a pickup. For the first half and hour, my thoughts were as dark as the fog that enshrouded me, made even worse in noting that there were no busses along here after about 8 a.m.  But I kept the faith, spinning frequently with thumb out.  And in doing so summoned up a miracle ride somehow, the driver stopping just in front of the village police box, prompting me to jokingly ask if this was legal.  A woman who I'd been keeping pace with during the last ten minutes was standing nearby, and laughed. 

The ride was a short one, along a quiet road that traced the shoreline before terminating at the tiny fishing village of Tsukide.  I dutifully followed a directional sign pointing up toward the hills,  pleased with both my good luck and with a gorgeous thatched roof house whose surroundings were decorated with items of a long ago age.  Within a minute the smile left my face, as the trail halted below a massive dam.  I scanned for any trace of trail, but all was overgrown.  I was further puzzled that my online map showed the route to be on the complete opposite side of the village.  I retreated back to to the sign I'd seen earlier.  

Besides being a national holiday, it also appeared to be a day when the entire hamlet was out for their village cleaning.  A man and woman were busy pulling debris out of the rocks at the water's edge.  I asked them if they knew about the Umi no Be, and in broken English, the man beckoned me to follow. 

I followed him into the house that I'd be admiring minutes before.  Both he and I were unmasked (mine in my pocket), but he seemed little concerned as he sat just beside me, and spread a paper map across our laps.  Local knowledge once again trumped technology, but he talked incredibly slowly, in what seemed to my deadline-obsessed mind to be like one syllable every three seconds.  Finally armed with the right directions, I moved quickly up some steep switchbacks, finding myself out of breath on the ridge a mere hour after leaving the train.  There was a decrepit little park there, so I stopped to de-layer before moving on.  

This was the time that I most feared the risk of bears, and I was walking a trail pockmarked with spiky horse chestnuts, most of them already cracked open.  The trail led over a little rickety bridge, offering me a Sorcerer moment in every step.  The opposite side had recently been torn apart by wild boar, probably the night before.  From here the path was carpeted with magnolia leaves, under any of which could be a viper a-coil. I wanted to believe that they were already in hibernation, as the cool fog chilled the sweat of my earlier climb.  

The paved parkway road below twisted and turned with the contours of the ridge.  But I followed a roller coaster that rose and fell, in keeping with the actual ridge line. I was still hoping for the fog to burn off, not only for the views that weren't too far in front of me, but also so I wouldn't surprise any bears that might also be.  I probably had nothing to fear from animals, giving fair warning with my huffing and puffing, this being my first real hike in almost three months.  And the moment I thought this, from the forest below me I heard a strange kind of yelp which wasn't a deer or any other bird I'd ever heard before.  It repeated a few times, followed then by a low roar. Shit!, a mother and her cub.  Their cries repeated a couple of times:  the yelp, the roar.  The squeal. The roar. It took the mind a second to parse out the motorcyclist on the road just below, firing up his bike with a squeaky kickstarter.

My route wasn't on either of my trusty go-to hiking apps, so I was flying blind, putting my trust in the signage.  It had been pretty good so far, but of the worn, 1990s vintage. Inevitably three decades of storms coming off the lake will have brought rot to the base of the post of one, and an arrow that I might eventually need to rely on will be lying in the overgrowth of weeds a half step off-trail.  Fingers crossed, I came over the peak that served as the ridge's high point, and continued my undulations south.  

And the fog lingered on, past the lunch hour.  Every time I came to a view point, I could do nothing but smile.  When I solo hike I'm generally pretty good with the weather, and I could have easily chosen the following day, though the forecast for the current day had looked better.  I could write an entire post on how poor the meteorological system has become in Japan over the last decade.  Not surprising, right on the heels of their investing massive amounts of money in new technology.  

I stopped for a moment to confirm my course from my digital map, which did at least include the southern half of my course.  And as I did, a venomous yamakagashi drifted across the trail two meters in front of me.  Some steps led down to the road proper, and then lo and behold I saw through the trees the lake opening up below me.  With the lifting of the fog, thus did my spirits.  

The trail began to drop steadily toward the fishing village of Sugaura.  I played peek a boo with views, the structures getting bigger each time.  The final descent to a lower section of trail was hazardous even with trekking poles, but it was through a gentle pitch of cedar forest that I returned to the water's edge.  I had flown over my hike today, and found that I had ample time to make my train.  It would be a two hour road walk to the station, but the course was flat, the skies now blue, and the lake's surface shimmered in the warm sunshine.

There were no signs here to speak of, but I knew that I was supposed to hug the lake's edge.  I detoured to follw a now closed trail that led directly along a long beach, before returning to the road again.  A quick glimpse of the map brought me to a halt, as it was possible that the trail might have returned to the hills above.  I backtracked on the road proper, looking for signs or any indications that it actually did, arriving yet again back where I'd popped out of the forest.  I scanned what little online info I could get on the trail, and finally came to the conclusion that I'd been correct all along.  

I thought I'd hitch to make up for my backtracking.  There were only a couple of features between here and the next town, so I walked to the first, a small cluster of Buddhist statues, before throwing out my thumb.  There very very few cars, but the second one did stop, driven by a middle aged woman on her way to work.  We were only together for five minutes or so before I hopped out again at a campsite, to walk the rest of the way to the station.  The town began to slowly build up not far along from here, past sorghum fields, run-down shacks, and the odd fishing business whose small stature betrayed a fleet of high powered boats. One beautiful and stately home looked recently abandoned, now overrun by a troupe of playful monkeys.  

Nagahara had the look of a feudal town, its narrow main street lined with houses mainly of wood.  I detoured to a shrine or two, then arrived early at the train station, to sit and read and sip from an iced coffee.  I watched some schoolkids play in a park just down the hill from my platform perch, and thought how we had all gotten the day right, had capitalized on the holiday and the weather, and the spirit of play that should be a mainstay of all of us, yet is too regularly obscured by the grey gloom of fog that rolls in from time to time, often of our own making.    

On the turntable:  Grateful Dead, "Community War Memorial Auditorium, 09-02-1980"

 

Mitsuhide's Wild Ride

 

Shōryūji Castle stands near the confluence of three rivers, which run through a narrow gap in low mountains between Kyoto and Osaka.  For two centuries this castle guarded this gap, but it could do nothing to withstand the encroach of suburbia.  Little surprise, as it fell in the Battle of Yamazaki in less than two hours.  Its defender, Akechi Mitsuhide could do little to hold

back the forces of Toyotomi Hideyoshi, who sought Mitsuhide's's head for the murder of Oda Nobunaga less than two weeks before.  In panic, the thirteen-day shogun ran.

As I stand atop the rebuilt ramparts I too think about attackers, though in 2020 this means coronavirus.  I'd wanted to follow Mitsuhide's path when I first read an article about it back in the winter, but then, like most people, I sought refuge rather than flight.  By October the situation in Japan seemed to be calming a little (or the lack of transparency deluded us into believing so), and it felt I could brave the short train ride to do the walk.  

I have a quick look at the exhibit inside the rebuilt castle keep, which in a PC-style sleight of hand veers away from Mitsuhide's historic betrayal and focuses more on his Hosokawa family relatives, whose tutelary temple now houses the world-famous rock garden of Ryozan-ji.  Yet the Hosogawa too aren't above criticism since it was their family feud that started the Onin Wars, abetting in the complete destruction of Kyoto and 150 years of civil war that followed.  Those wars were coming to an end in 1582 when Mitsuhide did his runner.  I'd forgotten though that his wife was a Hosokawa daughter, Gracia, Japan's most beloved Christian convert.  Many times I'd noticed her grave in Kōtō-in, but what I never realized was that her "assisted suicide" on the eve of the Battle of Sekigahara had turned the tide of sentiment in favor of Tokugawa Ieyasu and had perhaps contributed to his clan becoming the Shogunate.     

I am not thinking of any of this as I walk toward Shōryū-ji temple, along a tarmac colored differently than the others that cut through this otherwise nondescript suburb.  And located in suburb, the temple itself is equally non-distinct, but for a worn statue of indiscriminate age.  It is a short walk from here to the the 1600 year-old Igenoyama burial mound, its unknown occupant no doubt a powerful ruler during a time when Japan was just beginning to settle into a sedentary society. 

And suburbs are the ultimate sedentary legacy.  The mound too has been hemmed in, so I descend to follow the rivers northeast.  I am not sure the exact path Mitsuhide took, but I am sure he was spared the bland chain stores bisected by Sunday traffic, spared the towering concrete migratory path of the Shinkansen, spared the factories whose commonality was concrete, sheet metal, and bizarre smells.  We may have shared the view of weekend farmers busy with a late rice harvest.  One massive field has been sheared at the edges, with the middle left to resemble a bright green mohawk.  

Fushimi brings a bit of traditional respite.  I've both visited and guided here many times, and inevitably seem to come across something new.  My path today is deliberate, in order to visit Yamorido, a new craft beer brewery I'd heard about.  I sit safely at a table that is as much outdoors as in, taking a long break over lunch and a flight of beer.  Tokyo has just been added to the infamous Go To Travel campaign, and the street outside feels somewhat busy.  I haven't been out in public at all over the last eight months, and it reminds me of the old days of domestic tourism, with nary a language besides Japanese heard anywhere.

Following the narrow lanes out of town, I am nearly run down by a guy who has obviously not been looking out the windshield of his car, his eyes probably pointed down at his phone.  I give him a burst of Japanese of my own, all blunt verb endings mixed with some colorful English thrown in for good measure. 

I crest the hill that bisects the tombs of the Meiji Emperor and Russo-Japanese hero Nogi Maresuke, then descend into suburb again.  It is dull going for the next hour until arriving at Honkyo-ji.  The temple is of a modern construction, the oldest thing about it being the memorial stone to Mitsuhide beside the main hall.  The famed bamboo thicket behind has been severely shorn, cut back at least a hundred meters from the hall.  A broad earthen avenue remains, for the convenience of the machinery to harvest more in the future.  I see a handful of blue flags waving above a sparse patch of thicket down the hill.  This is Mitsuhide Yabu, the site were Akechi was speared to death, allegedly by bandits in Hideyoshi's employ.  It is truly hard to find much romance of the old here, with the dearth of forest and suburbs ringing all.  There are no bandits today either, but one old farmer working nearby directs me down a narrow path that drops me into the midst of the housing below.   

I walk more north than east now, angling toward a gap in the mountains to my right.  I remember that Daigo-ji's impressive Kami-Daigo temple hall is up there somewhere, and I feel happy that I'd visited before the 2008 fire that damaged a number of its structures.  For the next hour I move through a comparatively bland landscape of suburban sameness.  

My own fire of enthusiasm is beginning to die down.  I'd planned to walk all the way to Mitsuhide's Sakamoto Castle, the intended destination of his flight, but I'm fast losing interest.  I'm meant to veer east again soon, but I have an escape route in Yamashina station not far ahead.  On long walks such as these, I never look at how many kilometers I've done until I finish.  Otherwise, to realize you've done more than expected leads to a psychological fatigue.  But today I check the mileage, and am surprised that I've done 23 km already.  With 12 more to go.  I'd estimated the total walk at 27 kilometers, which I am prepared to do, but I'm not at all prepared to do 35.  Minutes later I'm sitting out front of the station, iced coffee in hand, killing time until the train.

 

It is at that same station that I detrain a week later, the chill in the air a far cry from the muggy heat that accompanied what's written above.  Cars pass too closely and too frequently as I walk the Tokaidō awhile.  Eventually I enter suburb again, accompanied by the feeling that I've seen all this before.  Beyond an expressway-shaded temple, a narrow trail leads me to Kozeki-koe, which I know I passed when doing a parallel journey in reverse 7 years ago.  And rereading that particular post I find the same sentiment I feel today: the highs of the quiet shaded neighborhood around Mii-dera; the annoyance at being denied views of Lake Biwa by the military base, the chain stores, and the towering apartment blocks that colonize the shoreline.  

Isn't until I'm Karasaki that I can truly enjoy the waterfront, beneath the trees that shade narrow patches of park. I get a surprise in the signs warning of vipers.  A trio of men fish from beneath an unusual torii with pitched cross-beams, and families enjoy the fading of light beside the gently lapping waters.  

Akechi is here too, standing bronzed and proud, looking in the direction where he lost his life.  This was all part of his castle, and I spend the next half-hour playing connect the dots with the historical markers that denote it perimeters.  Under the final fading light of the day, I find his grave (or perhaps one of many, as the bodies of warlords tend to be spread around a bit).  It is a nondescript site, just a small grassy mound tucked between houses, a resting place cramped for a man of vision vast.

On the turntable: Jacques Brel, "L'intégrale-- La boite à bonbons : 25ème anniversaire"     

 

Sea of Japan to Biwa...revisted.

Before walking the Hōkuriku-dō last December, I spent a fair amount of time deciding which of the two routes to take to the east shore of Lake Biwa.  What bothered me was that neither of those routes connected with the Nishi Ōmi-ji on the western side.  There was a road by that name, but I knew that it wasn't the real thing.  In Japan there are plenty of highways that take the monicker of an older route which traditionally lay close by, but not necessarily directly beneath.  I found what I thought was the most likely course, and decided that I'd walk that.  

Then one day, I came across a different map which showed the true route I'd been seeking.  The road didn't branch off the Hōkuriku-dō at all, but started its southbound journey from the western outskirts of Tsuruga city.  And rather than follow the broad river valleys, it snaked its way into the mountains, before rushing headlong toward Japan's largest lake.  

And so it was that I once again found myself on the first train bound for Tsuruga.  What is it about towns on the Sea of Japan that makes them look so tired? It took me a good hour to actually walk out of the city and into the rice fields that were in an earlier point in their planting cycle than those I'd been walking through earlier in the week.  

There wasn't a single trace that this had once been an old road.  Rather, it was busy with farm vehicles, with absurdly wide sidewalks, despite the dearth of bicycles out here.  I looked at the parallel roads to the right and to the left, but those too were lined with newer houses, lacking the usual wonderful line-up of old Edo period structures.  

The morning started muggy, but began to cool as I climbed, not due to the change in elevation which was very steady and gradual, but more from the wind coming off the sea, pushing me along, urging me toward the hills.  The landscape never seemed to change, just that bland, broad highway moving slowly on. There was a lone Jizo, and a majestic old tree.   Other than these, the road remained featureless.  I grew bored pretty quickly, and began to sing songs by Paul Weller.  That's entertainment.  

The mountains rose to meet me.  As they did, the road became a single track, which began to trace the bank of a concreted river.  This took me through a number of small farming communities.  Just beyond them, the concrete and the asphalt dropped away, and I happily found myself walking on bare earth.  My eyes were occasionally turned up toward the hillsides, as the memory of a bear warning sign that I'd seen further below resonated within my head.  But it was important to look down sometimes too.  Not too far along into the forest, I saw a sign pointing down a side trail in the direction of a Jizo that had been carved onto a giant, split bolder.  I followed this overgrown and unused trail until I saw a hut covering the stone upon which was imprinted a deity many centuries old.   As I took a step to investigate a smaller statue nearby,  I noticed a snake of a meter or more, moving slowly past my feet.  
  
The rest of the morning I followed the path as it hugged and crisscrossed the river.  It looked as it must have in feudal times, and I mused on this while walking along, climbing gradually into fresh green.  The forest around me was filled with birdsong, and if the constant chatter and squeals were any indication, rife with monkeys unseen in the trees.  On the final approach to the pass, the clouds began to roll in, and it wasn't long before the "potsu potsu" began.  Luckily there was a shelter at the top where I could sit and eat lunch.  The rain didn't last very long, but the clouds remained close.  Rather than linger, I headed quickly down the other side. 

The road here was paved as it moved toward the valley, eventually joining a broader one when it finally flattened out an hour later.  I continued on, chasing the shadows of clouds which blew along the road's surface in the direction of the lake.   Frogs serenaded me as I went.  They were given a standing ovation by two towering rows of dawn redwood trees, which ran in parallel on either side of the road.  It was puzzling that these trees were here, as this species is more commonly found in the Sichuan Province of China.  But here they were, shading me for the next few kilometers.  I've read a great deal about the namiki shade trees that once lined great stretches of the old Japanese highways, offering the traveler respite from the sun and the weather.  I'd seen patches of them here and there during my journeys, but never a strand so grand and unbroken as these.  

The redwoods begat chestnut orchards, which in turn begat rice paddies.  Approaching one, I saw a man standing over a woman sitting on the bank, her arms stretching behind her to support her weight. This was the body language of the young, for no old farm woman would sit like that.  As I drew closer I saw that this couple were probably still in their thirties, smiling and seemingly happy at this rural setting and life in which they found themselves.  I imagined them as recent city transplants chasing a dream, an impression created for no other reason than their newish clothes and the slightly perplexed expression on the man's face as he looked at his newly flooded fields. 

I checked my GPS, which told me I had 35 minutes to get to Ominakasho station, from which my desired train would leave in 30.  The next train would depart an hour after that.  I picked up my pace, nearly speed walking, keeping it up for the final three km, before breaking into an outright run for the last few hundred meters.  God I hate running!  Each slap of foot on pavement brought shooting pains into the lower buttock muscles on the right side, a place that usually begins to ache this far into a walk.  I'd done 30 kilometers on the day, and as usual, the last five began to hurt.  But I was proud that I'd done this distance in six hours, a blazing speed made more remarkable by the fact that I had climbed over 600 vertical meters in crossing the pass.    

I made it to the platform seconds before the train pulled in.  And with that, my feet came to rest.  While there are still a few longer routes I'd like to walk  -- four days on the Ise Kaidō, about a week on the Kumano Kōdō -- in terms of distances that can be measured in day trips, there were no more roads in Kansai left for me to walk. 



On the turntable:  The Beatles, "The White Album"
On the nighttable: Winston Davis, "Dojo:  Magic and Exorcism in Modern Japan"

Moving to Stand Still. (Western Front II)

There was a slowness to the morning.  Something about its nature, as everyone about seemed unhurried.  Many of the people I saw appeared to be heading home after passing the wee hours bringing in the new year.  There is a refreshingly languid feel to Japan at rest.

The train too felt unhurried, as I rode for over an hour to the northern reaches of Lake Biwa.  I made certain to get a seat on the right side, and await the first sunrise of 2014.  It too tarried a bit in arriving, needing a little more time to clear the bank of clouds nestling against the water's surface.

I'd certainly picked the wrong shoes for the day's walk.  There was a good 10 centimeters of snow on the ground.  And even it looked like it was in no hurry to get anywhere. 

The village of Makino was quiet, though occasionally a besuited man or two would cross the road ahead of me, moving toward the local shine with a wooden stick in hand.  One man smiled broadly and wished me a happy new year in my native language. 

On the outskirts of the village, a thatched roof house was working out the pace of its own state of decay.  As the main highway through here was flanked by snow, I walked down the middle, unmolested by cars which seemed to pass by only every ten minutes or so.  Beside the road, one car had a freshly torn left front fender, perhaps skidding on this very road last night.  Its driver may have been amidst the dozen or so people lined up at a small shrine in order to welcome the local deities into 2014.  I looked past them to the mountains on the horizon, a range on which I nearly lost my life in a snowstorm nearly a year ago.  I'd have to do my own praying later on.

I walk only a hour and a half, and come to Omi Imazu Station.  As I'd already walked the next section, I needed to leapfrog ahead 15km.  Hitching would be impossible due to the dearth of cars on the road.  But there was a taxi waiting at the station, so I hopped in.  I asked him to take the road along the water, retracing my steps on a hot August day just before I moved from Kyoto.   The driver moonlighted as the owner of a local inn, and seemed keen on talking me into buying a holiday home up this way.  We had a pleasant chat as my eyes stayed upon the ground over which I had previously trodden.

Today was a far more pleasant day for walking, the sun indifferent about keeping a consistent temperature as it popped in and out of the clouds.  It shone miraculous beams down upon the lake, the water gently lapped the snowy shore as if tasting ice cream.  I wandered into an neighborhood of beach homes with their free-form approach to architecture.   I left the road to walk atop the carpet of pine needles that coated the beach,  and followed it all the way into town.

Takashima had yet to awake this morning, which felt about right.  I moved past the shuttered galleries and cafes to the station, catching a train that got me home before lunch.  Over five days, I'd finished all the unfinished walks in my guidebooks, and looked forward to just sitting still awhile, easing myself into the laconic canter of this New Year of the Horse


On the turntable:  Yonder Mountain String Band, "Old Hands"
On the nighttable:  Richard Russell, "Dancing over Kyoto"

Western Front IV

I would return to the walk, and to Sakamoto where I had left off.  The sky is hazier, the day hotter, pressing toward 30 depute this being the last week of September.  I'm front-facing a large shrine when I make an abrupt turn to the right.  This particular road will accompany me a long while, as I bisect dozens of temples and shrines, each with a small plaque which explains its place in history. As I photograph one, a woman asks me if I can read what's written on it.  I explain that my kanji ability is decent, not great, and if I were to try to puzzle the whole thing out, I'd be standing there for fifteen minutes.  Usually I'll skim read to get the gist of things, then photograph the sign to read again in more detail later.  She tells me that she is the priest's wife, and invites me in to look at the altar.  I thank her, but tell her that I'd best keep moving along.  It's hot already at this early hour, and I'm liking the feeling of locomotion.

I come soon to Karasaki Shrine, one of Omi's eight famous sights.  They are meant to be seen not only in their specific locales, but also under certain conditions.  I'm supposed to enjoy this view of the water at sunset, on a rainy evening.  Instead, I get fishermen casting nets across a water surface shimmering in the sun.  Behind me is the Shrine's equally famous pine tree, twisting itself tall and proudly over the grassy lawn.  The 'kara' of Karasaki reads "T'ang" in Chinese, so I assume this tree, or one like it, has been here since at least the Heian period.  A small sign tells me that the tree had been damaged  in last week's typhoon. As if one cue, some workmen appear, and begin to wrap things in sheets of blue.  

I come eventually to the busier road I'd followed last week.  Some bicyclists who'd passed me earlier are now sitting in the shade of a convenience store, one of them smoking a cigarette with no apparent air of incongruance.   I'll be on this damn road for awhile.  Lake Biwa is mere meters to my left, but I am only given the odd glimpse.  I've ranted before about how the most beautiful cities in any country are those that feature their waterfront.  Here, Otsu has straightjacketed hers in concrete highways and chain stores.  Seeing the water would be a nice distraction.  Another of my usual rants is this city's lack of trail signs, but walkers are done the further injustice of sharing the busy road with the incessant stream of cars, without the courtesy of sidewalks.  

I'm directed up the last of the roads I'll walk, which again takes on the look of an old feudal highway, the two-story houses narrowing to one lane, punctuated by Buddha statues and small shrines.  Just below Mii-dera, I'll turn left down a lane lined with temples. At its end, I'll find the stone that marks where the Nishi Omiji meets the Tokaido, the latter stretching away from me, familiar from a morning fifteen months ago.  

It's only 10:30, so I decide to walk another couple of hours over the ridge to Yamashima station.  I backtrack past the temples again, which stand shoulder to shoulder all the way to the forest's edge.  Opposite, on the lower side of the road are a parallel row of houses that themselves line the narrow canal that will eventually become the Kyoto aquaduct.  Workmen and residents are removing sandbags at the canal's edge, and the presence of small diggers reveals the ferocity of the water's movement during the storm.  The small road upon which I'm walking then gets cluttered when one of the machines backs up, stopping the flow of cars and taxis heading to one of the many temples on the opposite side.  It is O-higan today, and the graves are busy with visitors.  

After freeing myself from the traffic jam below, I stop for a chocolate break, sitting beside a large grave that stands alone at the edge of the forest, one carved with Korean characters.  The odd car passes by as I make my way along the forested road toward the pass.  There is the obligatory Jizo hall, with a sign informing me that what I've been walking is know as the Kozuki-goe, the route taken by those moving north from Kyoto, rather than following the heavier trafficked Tokaido moving east.  The more I follow the more famous old roads, the more I encounter their smaller, more localized siblings.  Too many to walk in one lifetime.

I soon come to a smaller path which follows the canal, its water beginning to accelerate toward the aqueduct at the foot of this mountain.  I bypass it, formulating an idea about a walking trip that follows this little canal as it brings the water from Biwa and over two passes to Nanzenji.  I'm interrupted from my revery by a group of old timers walking up the hill toward me.  Earlier, I'd seen a dozen old men walking solo, each wearing a number that identifies them as some sort of walking race today, which I'm uncharitably referring to (in my head) as the 'old man marathon." But this group is unrelated, and had chosen this walk as a consolation prize to a planned mountain walk that had been called off due to storm-related trail damage.  I say farewell, and a few minute's descent brings me to a busy bypass road, complete with a police speed trap.  A quick look at the map shows me that I should have followed the smaller path along the canal.  I figure out how to return to the Kozuki-goe, and along the way, encounter a woman moving red cones in order to allow her car to pass.  She must live in the lone house that stands at the bend in the now-closed road.  A concrete wall has fallen against the front, taking with it a road sign.  The road itself has fallen away, the force of storm swollen water having risen with fury at this small bend.  

I've passed through the barricades on the far end of the road, and meet again the group of old-timers from thirty minutes before.  They confirm that I had indeed wanted to take the smaller road, and as it is only a kilometer to the pass, I hurry up and back.  Heading west once more, I make a metal note to return to a now shuttered Jakko-ji in order to see it's Magaibutsu.  It's a pretty straight forward walk along the aqueduct, sakura shading its length.  (This last point is perhaps a hint as to when to do this particular walk.)  I'm directed alongside some small factories.  In front of one, the road has collapsed completely into the river.  Then finally I meet the stone marker at the corner of the Tokaido, and familiar territory, and the train that gets me home for lunch.


MAP:  http://www.yamareco.com/modules/yamareco/detail-223164.html


On the turntable: Miles Davis, "Seven Steps"
On the nighttable:  Junichi Saga, "Memories of Silk and Straw"

Western Front III

The day after the typhoon gave us a beating, the sun rose to reveal a day crisp with the promise of autumn.  I decided to take advantage of the good weather by continuing the walk down the west coast of Biwa, a walk I'd begun in the summer of 2009.  

At that time I had been walking the "Umi no be no Michi," ignorant to the fact that this moniker is of recent vintage.  Since older times, it has been known as the Nishi Ōmi-ji, and is a section of the longer Hokkoku Kaidō, as it is called where it runs along Biwa's eastern shore.  It was this route I walked today, headed toward where it linked up with the Tokaidō down in Otsu.

I get off the train in Ōmi Takashima, walking toward a Lake swollen with flood water and bright with sunshine.  The pedestrian tunnels, and the shoreline walkway to which they led, are completely submerged.  I stay high up on the quiet road that ran through the village, before getting prefunctorily dumped onto the significantly busier Rte 161, which unfortunately would make up most of the day's walk.  As such, it is a relatively uneventful walk, and I remind myself that this same monotony caused me to thumb a ride last time.  

But I stick it out.  The wind isn't high, but breezy enough to keep things cool.  It creates whitecaps on the surface of the Lake, a surface stained brown with mud.  I know from my map that I won't be off road much today, so I relish the small path that take me past a dozen stone Buddhas enjoying the sun on their faces, and down to the Shirahige Shrine, whose vermillion is a nice earthy contrast to the impossible blue of the sky.  The forests around shrines are usually the healthiest to be found in a nation famed for its deforestation, yet above Shirahige are strands of dead white wood.  Even more ironic, if you consider the 'white beard' that is the shrine's name.  

Thick conifer boughs lie across the road in some places, their needles still moist with life.  But above Komatsu I see the real damage.  A river that feeds the surrounding rice paddies had jumped its banks, the waters finding new beds as they ran along the roads and into the fields.  Luckily, the farmers had already harvested here, but I imagine that it'll take some work to get the mud out and make the fields fertile again.  A sinkhole has dropped out the center of one field as if a plug has been pulled.  A scarecrow stands nearby with arms in the air as if being robbed.

Meter high watermarks show on the sides of the houses of the village, and many of the low concrete walls that surround them have been pushed over.  The water is back in its riverbed, but trees and debris are piled high on both sides to the height of a man.  The owners of the house closest to the river are lucky that it is still standing, with the mud on the roads below it 10 cm deep.  I step up and over dead trees, past the residents busy with their shovels.     

I cross diagonally through rice paddies.  The maker of the map I'm using seems to have lost his mind completely when I'm directed along a zigzag course across the berms separating them.  I choose to stay on the road, which then leads directly to an anti-simian fence.  It is effective against this particular simian, forcing me to detour.   But I find some small satisfaction in the fact that I'm walking faster than the traffic up on the Rte 161 Bypass.  

Ōmi Maiko is the terminus for the Umi no Be no Michi, but the Nishi Ōmi-ji A crow lies dead in the road, which surprises me considering their agility.  It is rare to see them as roadkill.   But it makes more sense when I see the farmer in his field, aiming a slingshot at the birds and firing off shots at them.   But they don't move too far from their mate, who looks freshly dead.  I 'm not sure what the farmer is protecting, as his fields have already been harvested.  After yesterday's rain, they take on their flooded appearance of spring, accompanied by the sweet smell of manure.

The rural scenes leave off after I pass below the peak of Hira-san.  The mountain, and all below her, reveal their details in the clearness of the air.  I find myself stopping often simply to gaze at a richness of detail seen only on the day after typhoons.  It is almost worth having a day or two of bad weather, but I'm sure that those currently shoveling mud would disagree. 

And with the coming of city, my enthusiasm begins to wane.  I wrote a year ago about how I won't walk 25 km on a day over 25 degrees, but I've broken my word once again, and push close to 35.  The breeze can no longer resist the heat of the day, and I wind up sunburned and slightly dehydrated.  My amusement at the quirkiness of my mapmaker turns to abuse when I'm led along a stone beach now underwater.  The highway has long lost its charm, though I'm pleased to find a marker for an 'ichirizuka,' the only indication all day that I've been on the right path after all.  

Heading toward Sakamoto Station, schoolkids begin to pass me on their way home.  One girl nearly walks directly into me.  On her bookbag is the English word, "Look!"  But I've been looking all day and am weary.  I knew that I wouldn't do the full 40km stretch in one day, and am pleased to have come so far.  It'll be a mere stroll through the suburbs to get to the terminus in Otsu.  Hopefully, some remnants of the past will reveal themselves.  "Look!"     

(MAP: http://www.yamareco.com/modules/yamareco/detail-275232.html )
 

On the turntable:  Eric Clapton and Duane Allman, "Studio Jams"
On the nighttable:  Azby Brown, "Just Enough"

Western Front

For some reason, I wanted to walk the west side of Like Biwa. I thought it would be nice to find small beaches and have a swim when it got hot. The day had a poor start, when I took a train on the wrong line and got off at a station with a similar name. Once I got to where I needed to be, the morning was nearly over. I walked a quiet road, well shaded and with beautiful views of lake beside me. I figured to simply follow whatever road was closest to the lake, and was surprised to find that there is an actual trail, the Umi no Be no Michi. It stayed on the pavement mostly, but once in a while I'd be treated to a short stroll on the beach for a couple 100 meters or so. Being Obon, many families were camped at the water's edge, the kids playing in the water. Most of these were in clusters at the bigger, more famed beaches, but quite a few had scored a small strip of sand out of the sight of anyone else. I was passed by many bicycles, riding past me with a rush of wind ever growing in pitch, as they did the 185 km circumnavigation of the lake. I'd often come come across a bike or two leaning against a tree, with the sounds of someone cooling off in the water below. There were also many fishermen, the most enviable without shirts and waist deep in water.

While walking in 'nature' you often come across the abandoned remnants of frenzied 'bubble' spending. There were some pretty resorts left to decay up here. One of them spooked me in that the clock over the entrance still kept accurate time. It gave the feeling of a cadaver about to rise up on the table. The path took me over some rocks that helped me avoid a long tunnel. At the top of the trail was a small temple dedicated to Kannon, whose main hall was built from wood bloodied in the great Azuchi castle's fall. Once beyond this, I succumbed to worldly desires and had an ice cream.

Leaving the quiet road behind, I came to the first of a series of small villages. The first, Makino, had an almost Christian graveyard of small stones laid across the sand. Nearby was an old Edo period sake shop and another for soy sauce, as well as three barber shops all in a row. Later I came to Omi Imazu, whose residents had the foresight to display photos of buildings that they hadn't had the foresight to save.

It was hot now, full afternoon. I wanted a swim, but I was near a bird sanctuary, and the coast became wetlands. The view of the lake dropped away and the road became dull. To escape the heat, I crossed to the west side in order to walk in the shade of sakura lining this route. There were a few times where I could drop into the marsh and walk along a series of wooden walkways. They looked unused, with bamboo and other plants growing between the planks. I eventually got my swim where I found beach again, bobbing and easing my achy feet in the warm water.

Back on the road I grew sick of the monotony and thumbed a ride with a car full of cute young women. One of them impressed me with her knowledge of old Shinto. She's the only Japanese person I've met who has actually read the Kojiki and Nihon Shoki. It was fun to ride along singing to a Nirvana CD, but after they dropped me off I began to wonder if they were kitsune, since I was stuck at an massive concrete station, whose boastfulness was undeserved, hosting a single train per hour. Having far too much time to kill, I wandered out again, trying to hitch to a busier station. No luck. At all. Ah, Shiga-ites, how I'm gonna miss you!

On the turntable: Andrew Bird, "Armchair Apocrypha"